


Holy Ground

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - American Gods Fusion, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, Flashbacks, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:28:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21780967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: American GodsAU.  Enjolras and Grantaire are two ancient gods who join the rest of the gods to discuss war against the new gods, but their chance meeting sparks reminders of how and when they first met.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 81
Collections: Les Mis Holiday Exchange (2019)





	Holy Ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Onlythegodsarereal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onlythegodsarereal/gifts).



> For Onlythegodsarereal, who requested: "American Gods AU: Enjolras and Grantaire are two ancient gods (could from different pantheons or from the same one) that are slowly being forgotten. They hadn't seen each other for a couple of centuries, but, when Odin calls all the ancient gods for discussing war against the new gods, the two of them answer together with other old friends (if you want to add the other amis for me it's more than alright) and old feelings resurface."
> 
> And, well, kind of.
> 
> I'm such a huge fan of American Gods that I knew I wanted to tackle this prompt, and I only hope I've managed to do it some sort of justice. Thanks to Chelsea for the beta.

Enjolras pulled the folds of the white coat he wore closer around him as he approached the entrance for the bizarre roadside attraction known as House on the Rock that was about, as far as he could discern, fifty miles from anywhere approaching civilization in Wisconsin. His delicate, feminine features looked sharper in the winter light, and his breath fogged the air in front of him. He picked up his pace, hoping, if his luck held, to duck indoors before anyone who knew him might recognize him.

His luck didn’t hold.

“Fancy seeing you here, Apollo.”

Enjolras looked sharply to his left, at the man — or man-shaped being, more accurately, given what was about to transpire there that day — leaned at an almost precarious angle against one of the stone pillars holding up the roof over the entrance way, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his head, though the hood didn’t quite seem to touch his head, as if something underneath held it up. “That’s not my name,” he said, almost warily, watching as the figure took a deep drag from a cigarette and exhaled just as deeply. “And since Apollo himself might actually show up today, I doubt he would appreciate the comparison.”

“Sorry,” the man said, with just the slightest hint of a French accent, and in the brief flare of the tip of the cigarette, Enjolras saw the man’s eyes burn sapphire blue, even in the fading light. “What name do you prefer these days, then?”

“Enjolras,” Enjolras said, taking a cautious step towards him. “And you are…”

He trailed off as the man again exhaled, the cloud of smoke clouding his features once more. “Don’t you recognize me?” the man asked, amused, and as the smoke finally cleared, Enjolras was surprised to find that he did. Not as an exact memory, perhaps, for he doubted either of them looked much like they had back then, but something in the man’s eyes and in his smile was as familiar to Enjolras as the sun in the sky.

“Yes,” he breathed, and this time, the step he took closer to him was automatic, as if drawn by some invisible force. “Though the last time we met, you declined to give me your name.”

The man’s smile widened. “So you do remember,” he said, his voice low, stirring memories that Enjolras had forgotten of rites that had long since been abandoned. “And here I assumed the countless lovers you’ve doubtedly had would’ve clouded your memory.”

Enjolras snorted lightly. “Hardly,” he scoffed. “I’ve been too busy for lovers.”

The man looked amused. “So you’ve chosen work over play, then.”

Enjolras scowled. “That’s not what I said,” he said. “Though you always did have a penchant for twisting my words. Besides, why are you even here? Since when have you cared?”

If anything, the rude way in which Enjolras asked the question only made the man more amused. “I don’t,” he said with a shrug, flicking his cigarette into the frozen grass. “But the Allfather called, and not even I can choose not to at least hear the old man out.”

There was so much that Enjolras wanted to say to that, but he decided now was not the time. Instead, he pulled his coat tighter around him before asking, “So do you have a name that you actually give people these days?”

“You can call me Grantaire.”

Enjolras’s brow furrowed for a moment before he snorted. “Capital R,” he muttered. “Of course. It suits you.” He hesitated before asking, a little awkwardly, “You’ve been well?”

“The scratches you left on my back have healed, if that’s what you mean,” Grantaire replied, in a way that implied he knew damn well that wasn’t what Enjolras had meant. “Of course, it’s been a few centuries, so one would hope.”

Enjolras gritted his teeth. “I meant—”

“I know what you meant,” Grantaire said, though his amusement faded as he straightened, suddenly looking much older, and more tired. “And I’ve been as well as any of us, I’d guess. No festivals, no sacred rites, no one paying tribute at our shrines.” His expression twisted. “Hell, most of our shrines have been torn down or buried.” He glanced at Enjolras. “What about you?”

Shrugging, Enjolras looked away, wondering how best to describe the last several centuries. “Well, they’ve kept my name in science, but at least for the most part they’ve stopped using it as a slur, so I suppose we could call that good.”

Grantaire made a small, disparaging noise. “Humans,” he muttered with disgust. “What they don’t understand, they fear, though at least it means your name has not yet been forgotten.” He smiled at Enjolras once more, his tone turning low, almost a purr. “But were I to speak it, I would use the reverence it deserves.”

“Grantaire—” Enjolras started, but before he could say anything more, they were interrupted by more arrivals, and instead he ducked his head slightly before glancing again at Grantaire. “Shall we go inside?”

Grantaire shrugged and gestured for Enjolras to lead the way. “As always,” he murmured, low enough for Enjolras alone to hear, “I choose to follow you wherever you lead.”

Enjolras flushed and hurried inside, though he had to admit - in a distracted sort of way - that he was slightly gratified when Grantaire followed him, even if it led his thoughts far astray from the purpose of their meeting that day, back instead to a place long ago, and far away, where once before, the two gods had met.

COMING TO AMERICA

In every life, human or god alike,  _ wrote Mr. Ibis in his leather-bound journal, _ there is a choice to be made.

That is the moral, and one might choose to end the story there. Or else one may care to know the details.

Certainly there are grander choices than others, and history remembers the sweeping epics built on big choices. But the true histories of the world are written by the often simple and mundane choices we each make.

There was a Grecian girl whose father was an olive farmer,  _ Mr. Ibis continued, pausing to blot excess ink from his pen. _ She was not quite old enough to be married when the conscription notice from the Roman legions came for her brother, but while she might not have been old enough to be married, she was old enough to know that if her brother marched west with the Romans, he would not return, and there would be no one to help her father with the olive harvest.

So she went to the shrine of Aphroditus, sometimes called Hermaphroditus, and she stared at the statue of someone who was man and woman, both and neither all at once, and she prayed for guidance for the choice she must make.

And when she returned home that evening, she cut her hair and took her brother’s armor and her brother’s name and left to join the Romans.

When the dust from the battle settled, the girl still lived, blessed, perhaps, by Aphroditus or perhaps just by sheer blind luck. But with no Romans left alive that she knew, she had no choice but to flee into the forest in search of food, water and shelter. 

She stumbled upon an encampment, and was lucky that they chose to take her in without question. And later, she returned to the grove where she had survived slaughter and planted a tree and whispered thanks to the god who had kept her safe.

Many cultures have their version of this story, but here it is important not because of the girl, or her choice, but because her choice was how Aphroditus came to what was then called Gaul and is now called France.

But Gaul was not without gods of its own, gods of the earth and the water, gods much older than the Greek and Roman gods brought by the minds of the Roman hordes as they invaded.

And gods are not as easily conquered as men.

Aphroditus stood in front of the tree the girl had planted in his honor in a land that was neither of theirs, and it took him a moment to realize that he was not alone.

He whirled around, his chiton swirling around his ankles as he did, his hands raised in defense, but he froze when he saw who was but a foot away from him.

It was a man, and the first thing Aphroditus noticed was the man’s eyes, burning blue even in the dim light of the forest. His eyes were so captivating, so fathomless, that it took Aphroditus a whole minute to realize that the man-shaped thing had antlers, the curving prongs matched by the almost animalistic features of the man’s face.

As he was an Olympian, it was hardly the strangest thing Aphroditus had seen, and he drew himself up to his full height and glared at the creature. “What do you want, satyr?” he asked imperiously.

The creature cocked his head slightly, his eyes seeming to glow even brighter. Then he opened his mouth, and he laughed. “What is this you’ve called me?” he asked, amused, and though he did not speak the same language, Aphroditus nonetheless understood the words he spoke.

“I called you a satyr,” Aphroditus said, taking an automatic step back. “They’re — well, they’re a creature from where I come from.”

The creature laughed again. “And as I do not come from where you do, what makes you think I am one of them?”

Aphroditus bit back his automatic retort, feeling unsettled by the mocking grin the creature wore. “Fine,” he said shortly. “If you’re not a satyr, then what are you?”

“I am the Horned One,” the creature replied easily. “That which some have called God and others have called beast.” He arched an eyebrow. “And what, praytell, are you?”

Aphroditus’s scowl deepened. “I am Aphroditus,” he said. “I may not be horned, but I, too, am a god.”

The Horned One’s eyes flickered. “And goddess too, unless my eyes are deceived.”

“Both,” Aphroditus answered, raising his chin just slightly. “And neither.”

The Horned One shook his head slightly, the dim light of the forest filtering through his antlers like branches of a tree. “So, Aphroditus—”

“Wait,” Aphroditus interrupted. “What are you called?”

The Horned One gave him a slightly pitying look, and he answered with exaggerated patience, “I have told you, I am the Horned One.”

Aphroditus rolled his eyes. “No, I know that, but what is your name?”

“The...Horned...One,” the creature replied slowly, as if he thought Aphroditus was stupid, which was one of the surest ways to rouse Aphroditus’s ire.

“That is hardly a name,” he snapped. “Everyone must have a name.”

The Horned One shrugged unconcernedly. “What use have I for a name?” he asked. “One might as well call me Capital R for Rebus, for that is all a name is – an identifier.” He smirked. “And I have no use especially for being identified.”

“Then is that how you wish for me to address you?” Aphroditus asked sourly. “R?”

Again, the Horned One shrugged. “As you wish.”

Aphroditus rolled his eyes once more. “Very well, then, R—”

“And I shall call you Enjolras,” R continued, as if Aphroditus had not spoken.

Aphroditus scowled at him. “You cannot just make up a name for me! I have a name.”

“Since this is my grove that we stand in, I’m fairly certain I can do whatever I want,” R said, his words saccharine sweet but with a dangerous edge, and as if to prove his point, he sat down on the grass, sprawling against the forest floor as if he owned it. “Now, Enjolras, called by some Aphroditus, god and goddess, both and neither, for what purpose are you here?”

Aphroditus — or Enjolras, he supposed sourly, since it didn’t seem like there was any deterring this particular god, and considering the obstinance of some of his own pantheon, that was saying something — tried to look contrite, though it was hard to reel his irritation in. “I apologize that I did not know this was your grove, but I didn’t exactly choose to come here.”

“Yet here you stand,” R said calmly.

“Only because I was brought here,” Enjolras argued, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he stared down at him, feeling foolish. “It was not my choice, and—”

“And yet you have chosen not to leave.”

Enjolras glared at him. “Mainly because you’ve not yet given me a chance,” he said through clenched teeth.

R smiled, though it did not quite meet the flickering blue of his eyes. “Will you, then?” he asked. “Choose to leave?”

“Maybe,” Enjolras said, unwilling to dignify his questions with a concrete answer, adding stiffly, “I am not inclined towards choice.”

R’s smile widened, and his eyes darkened. “What are you inclined towards, then?” he asked, his voice low, rolling onto his stomach and propping his chin on his hand as he gazed up at him.

“Freedom,” Enjolras told him, a more serious answer than perhaps either anticipated. “From choice and otherwise.”

Despite the honesty of his answer, R just looked amused. “Bad luck for me,” he mused, “as I am a god of choosing, and if you wish to be free from choice, you must then wish to be free of me.” He fluttered his eyelashes at Enjolras, who flushed slightly. “Do you wish to be free of me?”

“I—” Enjolras started, his pitch much higher than usual, and he paused to gather himself before saying firmly, “Yes.”

Instead of looking disappointed by that, R brightened. “And yet to be free of me, you had to choose,” he said, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Quite a conundrum.”

Enjolras glared at him. “I didn’t say that,” he said. “You’re twisting my words.”

In an instant, R was on his feet, prowling around Enjolras before he could even track the movement. “And you may claim to avoid choosing, but all that really means is that you have chosen not to choose. A choice nonetheless.”

“You—” Enjolras ground out before breaking off, his glare deepening. “Are you always this infuriating?”

R smirked, rocking back on his heels. “So it has been said,” he said smugly. “Now, to get back to the choice at hand — how, exactly, are we going to settle the matter of ownership over this grove. I would say that we should fight like the barbarians who have tried to conquer this land, but it would not be a fair fight.” He glanced pointedly at Enjolras. “And I would not wish to ruin such a beautiful face.”

“You doubt that I would win?” Enjolras asked sharply.

R shrugged. “I know you would not win,” he said, with a lazy sort of confidence. “I am as old as this forest. I have seen power rise and fall again. And god or goddess alike has not yet felled me.”

Enjolras gritted his teeth. “If that is what you believe—” he started, but R cut him off.

“Believe?” he repeated, barking a laugh. “No. I believe in nothing, save a full glass left at my shrine during the sacred rites.” His smile grew when he saw the look on Enjolras’s face. “A dissatisfactory answer, I assume.”

“Just as I don’t fully believe you have no name, I also don’t believe that you are capable of believing in nothing,” Enjolras said stiffly.

R laughed lightly. “Fine,” he said, taking a step closer to Enjolras, his eyes glowing. “Then I believe in you.”

Enjolras swallowed, hard. “Be serious,” he whispered.

“I am wild,” R told him, his voice low, reaching out to trace a finger along Enjolras’s cheekbone. Then, abruptly, he dropped his hand, though he made no move to step away from Enjolras. “Now, to the question of how to settle this. There is another way besides fighting, but it is a way we must both choose.”

Enjolras hesitated. “What way is that?” he asked cautiously.

R’s smirk turned lascivious. “Joining,” he purred, eyeing Enjolras in a way that could not be mistaken

Enjolras recoiled, though he didn’t push R’s hand away. “You cannot be serious,” he spluttered.

“I told you before, I am wild,” R told him. “But why not? From the death that brought you here, why not participate in the sacred act that brings life, and love? Men and men, men and women, women and women — it matters not. The act means the same.” Enjolras shook head slightly and R cupped his cheek, all but closing the space between them. “You are disinclined towards choice,” he whispered, his lips mere inches from Enjolras’s, “but do you not see that the choice I offer is the easiest and best choice of all — the choice simply to be, here and now, with me, just as you are.”

Enjolras closed his eyes, the breath hitching in his throat as R traced the pad of his thumb across his lips. “And then will I be free?”

R’s hand fell to his side and for a moment, disappointment flared in his expression. “You are already free,” he told him. “Free to choose. But none of us, I fear, are free from choice.”

“And if I choose this?”

“Then I suspect you will find your own kind of freedom,” R said, his voice low. "If you permit it."

Enjolras hesitated for only a moment more before leaning in and kissing him.

The following day, the Grecian girl returned to the grove to bring water to the tree she had planted, but she was surprised to see a stone resting at its base, a stone with a carving of a horned being cleft in two. She ran her fingers over it but did not question it, and did not risk the wrath of whatever god it belonged to by moving it.

Instead, the stone remained at the base of the tree for centuries to follow, and when the Grecian girl’s descendants, who always kept the story of Aphroditus, the god and goddess in one who had saved her, close, left Gaul for America, they brought the memory of the small stone carving with them.

Aphroditus did not choose to come to America any more than he chose to come to Gaul. He, like most gods, came as imprints on the collective memories of generations.

But the Horned God, call him what you will, chose to follow.

There was no power left for him in Gaul. None, at least, nearly as powerful as the call that left him following always after Aphroditus.

He was a god of choosing, after all. And he had made his choice.


End file.
